Hang
by Julie Windred
Summary: Angsty little WyattBianca ficlet. Bianca and Wyatt face up to the realisation that their relationship is over.


_**Disclaimer**: I do not own Charmed or any of its characters. This story was developed for entertainment purposes only and carries no spoilers whatsoever. Spelling Entertainment and everyone else who stakes a claim in this series owns all rights to the characters in the following story, I just think they're fun to play with._

_**Author's Notes:** Inspired by Matchbox 20's "Hang". I wanted to challenge myself into writing a fic that featured no speaking, that all the emotion was contained in looks and actions. I think this method has been trialed on screen before. I'm hoping I carried this out effectively enough for the reader to be able to picture things as I can whilst they happen._

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**HANG**

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It would be good to go away. It was more than just a sentiment now – it had bloomed into an actuality. Perhaps not the way she'd intended, not the way that they'd thought. Drifting through the empty rooms she felt a distant aloofness to what lay inside. Furniture, appliances, all his, objects that had no meaning to her, that only served to remind her of him. She wasn't attached to any of it. Although she'd been here for a while, the length of time didn't feel long enough to claim any sort of possession over anything. There was no point in scouring for things across these rooms. No the only place she had anything that was truly hers was in the bedroom.

She stopped by the doorway, looking in. She could barely make anything out in the darkness, the sun having set long ago. There was a small strip of moonlight reflecting off the polished wooden floor, the light piercing through the lace curtaining adorning the window. Out beyond the walls, the lights of several city apartments and buildings danced in random patterns as people entered and exited rooms or simply retired to bed. Reaching to the wall inside, Bianca flicked the light switch, her eyes instantly moving to the roof. It was then that she remembered the light was not coming from overhead. The low suspending Venetian chandelier had become more than a problem as Wyatt attempted to change the bulbs in it. More than a few times it had swung to beat him in the head with its delicate hand-blown glass trim, the old wiring serving to be just as tiresome leaving Wyatt so frustrated he'd installed wall scones instead to light the room.

Her eyes moved across the room to where the soft light emitted from. Between the lights and displayed proudly on the wall above the bed was his favourite piece of weaponry – the sword, Excalibur, which he had inherited when he was young. It was pristinely clean and polished, like always. He took great pride in it. She'd always thought he'd cared more about that than her. At least it was still here.

Her gaze fell to the bed. That was what hurt to look at. To see the very place she'd once slept, where they'd talked about their plans for the future, where they'd played, eaten… made love. Her heart ached as she felt the coldness slipping, not noticing that she was absently playing with her ring. Quickly she turned her attention towards the closet, striding forward until she reached the doors. She felt her foot make impact with something and looked back to see she had kicked aside a stray boot. It was one of a pair of Wyatt's dark dusty boots that he favoured wearing. They'd been perfectly placed in front of the overstuffed armchair that sat by the window, one standing one leaning on its side as always. It was the latter she had managed to move away from its oft laid position. He'd always had a way of subconsciously removing one and knocking the other over as he spoke to her from that chair, or even if she was still sleeping she'd always find them that way the next morning. He never untied his shoes seated on the bed, always the armchair.

Reaching into the closet she pulled the duffel bag from within, seating it on the bed as she yanked open the zipper. She tried to ignore that which lay around her – the sights, the smells, the memories. Her hands fastening around the clothes, she pulled them as quickly as she could from the domineering hangers, shoving them with little thought into the open bag and pushing them down. She moved with the speed of someone afraid of being caught, fearing not for her safety but for the insecurity such a moment would bring if she had to face him. Finally removing her winter coat she noticed something was in the pocket. Thrusting her hand inside, she produced two tickets as she pulled the pieces of soft cardboard out. The print had faded with time, as had their relationship, but the writing was still discernable. They were tickets to an ice hockey game, the first event they had ever attended together. Wyatt had insisted she could not turn down the opportunity of seeing something so bloody and violent, and with mild amusement she had agreed upon going. It was the start of something that had blossomed into a relationship so passionate and loving that neither of them with their jaded pasts could have expected it to happen. But there was no use in being sentimental now, not now that things were over. Quickly she ripped them in half. Looking at the broken strips she knew she couldn't put it behind her until there was nothing left, until it was completely illegible. Again she tore the tickets, tearing them again and again until nothing was left but little fragments. Pooled in her hands, she let them flutter down from the gap between them into the wastepaper basket, parts of herself drifting away with them.

Moving to the chest of drawers located next to it, she pulled them open one by one, removing the last items of clothing, the smaller ones. Tops, underwear - ignoring the last time she wore any of these. The good times were hardly memorable, they happened months ago, buried beneath the hatred and sourness of recent events. The last draw contained her weapons, the ones she cared to take with her and not conjure up – a handful of small daggers, an athame, a long stretch of black cloth that served as both a blindfolding and binding tool. She removed each article, placing them with careful precision in the bag. Unravelling the last, she felt it catch against the wooden interior. Her hands reaching further inside to detach it, she felt something slice her finger. Reactively drawing back, she lifted it to her lips and gently sucked the wound where the emerging pain was springing from. It was only a papercut, but it still hurt. Leaning closer to the drawer to look inside, she pulled out the cloth and the folded piece of paper that lay in the corner – the offender of her physical pain. Discarding the cloth into the bag, she looked back to the paper in her hand wondering what it was. Carefully unfolding it she discovered it was an old love note Wyatt had written her. Full of poetry and praise, mapped out in his flowing handwriting, she remembered she had placed it alongside her weapons to remind herself that no matter what happened during the course of the day that there was always someone who still cared for her. Averting her eyes, she pressed her lips together, biting down as she closed her eyes and tried to compose herself. She wouldn't allow tears for this, over what was lost, over someone who was not what they used to be. Drawing in a shaky breathe, she looked back at the note, her brown eyes hardening. With purpose she crumpled the note in her hand, dismissively tossing it into the wastepaper basket as she walked back to her bag and sealed it closed.

Hoisting the bag onto her shoulder, she walked back towards the door, her hand coming to rest on the wooden doorframe. She stopped as she felt the disturbance in the material beneath her palm. Looking down, she traced the nick in the frame with delicate fingers. She had caused that. It had been made from the impact the heavy metal photo frame had made when she'd thrown it at him last week. She hadn't hit him, but she'd left a nice pile of shattered glass for him to pick up. Glancing back towards the side table she saw he hadn't replaced it. She knew neither where the frame was nor the picture of them from their engagement party that it had bore. Lifting her hand she pulled off the engagement ring he had given her, taking the few steps back to the table and replacing the empty place where the photo had sat with the ring – the only thing she did have that was theirs. Hesitantly she drew her fingers away from the smooth surface, turning as she headed out the door and made her way to the living room.

Wyatt glanced back over his shoulder as he heard her enter. She moved with purpose, ignoring everything around her as she headed for the coat rack and the front door. The bag over her shoulder told him she wasn't staying; she was really going to walk out this time. Sorrowfully he turned his head away, bowing it and staring at the powder blue jacket he clutched between his hands. He heard her circle the couch, her shiny black shoes poking out from the legs of her far-too-long jeans appearing in his peripheral vision. He knew what she wanted, and knew that if he gave it to her he would be allowing her to go.

Seeing her jacket was not on the coat rack where she thought it should have been Bianca made her way around to Wyatt. He was seated on the couch, his long curls covering his face as he kept his head bowed. She noticed he was holding her jacket between his hands but was unsure as to why – whether he wanted her to stay, or whether he was trying to hurry her out. Stopping by his side, she tentatively reached down and pulled the jacket from his grasp, watching his hands fall away as they had fallen away from each other. Her hand had brushed his for only a moment. The touch was not reciprocated.

Holding the jacket close to her chest she noticed he would not look at her. Shifting her gaze away she folded it awkwardly over her arm, looking back to Wyatt one last time before turning away. Although he appeared to be looking at his clasped hands and the floor as if they were the most interesting points of the room, he was in actuality listening. Listening to every breathe she took, listening to every resounding footstep as she made her way to the door, listening to the soft click as it closed behind her – a sound he'd become unaccustomed to hearing after all the door-slamming of the past few months. Swallowing the lump in his throat he finally looked up, tears stirring with stinging sensation in his eyes. He'd failed her. He'd failed them. She was gone.


End file.
